


An Offering To The Drowned God

by qodarkness



Series: The Drowned God's Champion [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All the domestic Theonsa, F/M, Fluff, Love, Technically baby (singular), and babies, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qodarkness/pseuds/qodarkness
Summary: The Drowned God was definitely and decidedly an old fusspot when it came to the baby.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: The Drowned God's Champion [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530323
Comments: 11
Kudos: 103





	An Offering To The Drowned God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingersprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/gifts).



Theon looked over the breakfast table at Sansa, who was eating her bread and butter with fruit preserves with obvious relish, perusing the correspondence that had been delivered along with their food. He barely had a chance to smile at the sight before his god began speaking to him.

~ _Is the Wolf of the North well?~_ asked the Drowned God, with only the smallest amount of anxiety.

~ _She’s well,~_ replied Theon, who had become used to the fact that Sansa had a constitution that would put an ox to shame (not that he would ever _tell_ her that in those words, precisely).

~ _Are you completely sure?~_ said the god. ~ _She hasn’t been poorly? No morning flux?~_

 _~She hasn’t been poorly,~_ confirmed Theon. Sansa definitely hadn’t been poorly, not if the activities they’d undertaken in their bedchamber before they’d come down for breakfast were any indication. The corner of Theon’s mouth curled up in pleased recollection at the thought. 

~ _Would that hurt the baby?~_ asked the Drowned God, this time decidedly anxiously and Theon rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he couldn’t think about things like that when the god was in his head, because that was the end of any privacy. Also, the Drowned God was definitely and decidedly an old fusspot when it came to the baby.

~ _Am not,~_ said the Drowned God, in a tone Theon could interpret as pouty, if he was so inclined.

~ _Are too,~_ rejoindered Theon. ~ _No, that isn’t going to hurt the baby, the baby will be alright. Sansa is well, the baby is well. She hasn’t got the morning flux, she is healthy and hale and… what did you call her? Robust.~_

~ _You’ll let me know if anything changes?~_ asked the Drowned God.

~ _Of course,~_ replied Theon and there was the sudden, slightly empty feeling that he got when the god left him to go back to his halls. 

He contemplated Sansa for a moment and then sighed, making her lift her head up from the correspondence and look at him. “My life,” Theon said to his wife, “would be considerably easier if you laid eggs.”

Sansa blinked for a moment, but her brother was the Three-Eyed Raven, her sister wore other people’s faces and her husband was a god’s champion. Somewhere in there she had come to accept being the recipient of statements of the utmost absurdity. 

“His morning check-up?” she asked mildly and Theon nodded.

“Human babies confuse him,” said Theon, settling in to thoroughly enjoy the oats and honey in front of him. “At least he’s stopped comparing you to a whale now.”

There was a sudden silence so complete that it managed to break through even Theon’s intent concentration on his breakfast. He looked up to find Sansa glaring at him.

“He compared me to a _whale_?” bristled Sansa. “A _whale_? There isn’t even a bump!”

Theon desperately wanted to laugh at the outraged expression on Sansa’s face but the art of self-preservation had long before been flayed into him, and he managed to keep his expression suitably sober. “Not that you _look_ like a whale, Sansa,” he said, doing his best to make it clear that he considered this entirely self-evident. “Whales have live babies, too. He’s not used to paying much attention to human babies, so he didn’t know how the whole thing worked.”

Sansa’s left brow rose, an imperious lift. “And _you_ taught him all about babies?” she said, with the most delicate snort of disbelief.

“I talked to the midwife, down in Wintertown. And the Maester.” He looked aside suddenly, away from Sansa. “Not just for him. Childbirth is… women die… all the time. If I lost you…” His face distorted suddenly, as if recalling a future grief. 

“Theon,” said Sansa, her voice calm, and he looked back at her. “They do, it is true. But I’m well and healthy and the babe is… I assume it is healthy. It’s only been six weeks! I won’t leave you.” Her eyes shone suddenly, a sheen of tears she blinked away with a smile. “You already died once. I think that’s more than enough for the both of us, don’t you? For many years to come, at least.”

“Yes,” said Theon and his laugh was only slightly shaky. “I think one death will do for a while.”

“Though if _you_ start comparing me to a whale,” said Sansa coolly, as she picked up her correspondence again. “I may have to reconsider that,” and this time Theon’s laugh was entirely filled with joy.

*****

~ _The Wolf of the North is well?~_ said the voice in Theon’s head and he sighed slightly. 

~ _Sansa is well,~_ said Theon, looking at his wife, who was patiently listening to the young man who stood before her, who was petitioning her in a matter regarding sheep. There seemed to be an inordinate number of matters involving sheep that were brought to her (or their) attention, but Sansa maintained the same imperturbable calm and gentle patience with each one. She was, thought Theon, slightly distractedly, the best Queen the North could ever wish for. ~ _You’re late,~_ he added. 

~ _There was a storm,~_ replied the Drowned God. ~ _Ships were foundering. Men were in danger of going to the bottom of the sea.~_

 _~Ironborn?~_ asked Theon.

~ _Ironborn,~_ confirmed the Drowned God. ~ _The Storm God contends against me always. The skills of the Ironborn are great,~_ he continued. ~ _It took much effort but all are safe now.~_ His voice became anxious again. ~ _The baby is well?~_

~ _The baby is well,~_ replied Theon and then sighed. ~ _Will you ask these questions every day? There’s still seven months to go.~_

~ _You do not wish to talk to me?~_ said the Drowned God, his voice slightly stiff. 

~ _It’s not that,~_ replied Theon. ~ _It’s just… it gets worrying. That you are a god and yet you have to ask. It makes me wonder if you have seen that something bad is coming. That something will happen to the baby.~_ His breath caught in his chest for a moment. ~ _That something will happen to Sansa.~_ He couldn’t help the anguish that ran through him at the mere thought of that.

~ _I’ve seen nothing,~_ said the god, reassurance washing through Theon’s mind. ~ _That is the problem. I see nothing, not in that way. You are too far from the sea, Theon Greyjoy.~_

 _~But you’re… a god,~_ replied Theon, equal parts worry and wonder.

~ _Could you call the kraken to you in Winterfell?~_ asked the god.

~ _Of course not,~_ replied Theon. ~ _There’s nowhere for it to… oh.~_

 _~Yes,~_ said the Drowned God. ~ _You are too far from me and the only sea there is in Winterfell is you, Theon Greyjoy.~_

 _~Could you not…~_ Theon made an indeterminate mental noise, the equivalent of a waved hand. ~ _Like with Cersei. Work through me.~_

_~You stood on the shores of Blackwater Bay, then. I could use the sea easily through you in that place. But not in Winterfell. The only sea there is you, and to see that way through your eyes, I would need to be you, Theon Greyjoy, to take over your mind and body and…~_

_~NO!~_ Theon’s reaction was so visceral, his rejection so complete that, for a moment, the Drowned God fled from his mind.

When the god returned he came in quietly, every sense of him an apology. ~ _And I would not ask that of you, Theon Greyjoy. I do not ask that of you. You are Theon Greyjoy, only Theon Greyjoy, and I would not ask you to be anything else.~_

There was silence between them then, a long pause as Theon fought his breath back under his control, shoved his hands beneath his thighs to stop their shaking, the Drowned God’s presence soothing and calm. 

~ _So you cannot bring the sea to Winterfell,~_ said Theon finally, when he could think again. ~ _Perhaps we should bring the Queen to the sea instead. Before travel becomes too awkward.~_

 _~You would ask that of the Queen?~_ asked the Drowned God, almost shyly.

~ _I would ask that of the Queen,~_ replied Theon, then held up a mental hand. ~If… _you solemnly promise not to compare her to a whale when you talk to her. Because you are a god, but she is Sansa Stark and I am not sure you would survive doing that. And then whose champion would I be?~_

 _~You are my champion, always, Theon Greyjoy,~_ replied the Drowned God, who tended somewhat towards the literal. But then the smallest touch of mischief shone through. ~ _I swear not to compare the Wolf of the North to a whale if you bring her to my shores. Because you are right, Theon Greyjoy. I, too, am not entirely sure I would survive her wrath.~_

*****

The sea on the shores past Deepwood Motte was iron-grey, the colour of cold, its beauty stark and spare, but it sang to Theon, a murmur that had grown in him as they had ridden through the Wolfswood, closer always to the home of his god. He was made of the sea now and it welcomed him home, a mother’s crooning song to her child in his ears. 

But Sansa turned and looked at him, at his suggestion, with a look of such outraged disbelief that it drove all thought of sea songs from his head. “You want me to take my dress off?” she hissed, just low enough that the men at arms that accompanied them did not hear her. 

“Just your overdress,” said Theon, his tone utterly reasonable. “The Drowned God wants us to walk into the sea. Your dress is wool - it’s going to take forever to dry if you get it wet. You don’t want to go riding in a wet dress.”

“I’m Queen in the North,” Sansa hissed, slightly less vehemently. “I can’t parade around in front of my men at arms in my chemise and shift.”

Theon smiled then, his face soft. “I would die a thousand deaths before I asked you to do something you did not want to do, Sansa. But,” he reached forward, twining his fingers through hers. “These men are about to see a god rise from the sea - no matter that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, I think that will be sufficiently distracting. And if you wear your dress, you’re going to get soaked.” He nodded down at himself. “There’s a reason I’m wearing my Ironborn clothes. The waterproofing is a lot better.”

Sansa looked at him and made a decided harrumph noise, but then nodded. “You have to help me with the laces,” she said and Theon nodded and swiftly undid the tight lacing of the top of her bodice, looser now at the bottom where her belly was developing a gentle swell. Sansa undid the complicated cross ties that held all of it together and then shimmied out of the heavy woollen dress, kicked off her short riding boots. With her chin held high, the most imperious of all of her expressions on her face, she handed it to the leader of their guards, with firm instructions not to let it get sand in it. He took the dress and boots, his expression carefully neutral until Sansa nodded her satisfaction. 

Turning, she laced her arm through Theon’s and he held her arm steady as they picked their way down the shore to the sea. Sansa gasped as the cold water lapped over her feet, but she and Theon had been through far worse, and she held to him again as they waded into the cold water, until it rose nearly to her waist. 

The Drowned God rose from the sea.

Theon was so used to the voice in his head that sometimes he almost forgot that what was behind that voice was a god. Until he stood in front of you, his feet in the sea, nearly an oldish Ironborn man, but not. A god instead, a roil, a wave, a seagull’s cry, a shark’s swift snap, a rising tide, an ocean’s depth.

Behind him, on the shore, he heard the cries of the guards there and knew that they had fallen to their knees in worship. 

“Theon Greyjoy,” said the Drowned God, and leaning forward, grasped Theon’s shoulder with his hand, the feel of the ocean pulsing beneath his skin, calling to the sea that Theon was made of.

He turned then to Sansa, who had not gone to her knees. She had met the Drowned God before, been married in his presence but he had been limited then, been more… human. But in the Sunset Sea, where the Ironborn worshipped him, without the other gods to balance and diminish him, somehow he was limitless, the unbounded ocean. 

“The Wolf of the North,” he said gravely. “I thank you for coming to me.”

She dipped her head, acknowledgement of what was before her and cleared her throat before she spoke. “Thank you for… all you have done,” she replied, her hand tightening on Theon’s arm, given back to her by the Drowned God.

“May I?” asked the Drowned God, indicating the gentle swell of Sansa’s belly that rose just above the waves and when she nodded, he lay his hands upon that swell, making Sansa gasp as she suddenly grew warm, despite the cold waters that lapped against her legs. 

It took a few moments, but finally the god smiled, took his hands from Sansa. “All will be well,” he said, and suddenly his eyes were lit up with joy as he smiled at Theon. He turned back to Sansa. “I have spoken to the sea inside of you,” he said gravely. “It has promised to cradle the babe well, to make things easy for you. It will call me if anything changes but…” the Drowned God roiled, something that may have been a shrug, “it should not change. You are robust. The babe is robust. All will be well, Wolf of the North. My champion is strong. You are happy. Your baby shall be fat. Theon Greyjoy keeps his promises to me.”

Sansa had looked suitably reverent at the start of the Drowned God’s speech, but her eyes widened at the last few sentences. “Thank you,” she said, in a strangled tone that Theon recognised was her trying not to laugh. 

The Drowned God reached out, picked up her hand, patted the back of it awkwardly. ‘And you are not anything like a whale,” he added earnestly and neither Theon or Sansa could stop themselves from laughing then. 

*****

The months had passed swiftly as Sansa had settled into a pregnancy that even the Maester had admitted was amongst the easiest he had ever seen. She continued to rule wisely, Theon at her side and slowly taking the more onerous and physical duties of the Queen in the North onto his shoulders. Winterfell ran well and smoothly and the North, slowly emerging from war and death and everything that the Night King had visited upon them, began to prosper. The Drowned God still talked to Theon daily, but his visits now hummed with happy anticipation, no longer concerned about Sansa’s health.

Time had also brought the rounding of Sansa’s belly and breasts, the change in her centre of gravity, a certain waddle to her walk that Theon wisely didn’t comment on. They found new ways to work around her changing shape in the bedchamber, in the end finding the most pleasure in her curling on her side, Theon behind her, a slow, deep form of loving that made their chambers a place of joy and soft laughter, a tenderness neither had ever thought would arise on the day that Sansa had placed her life in Theon’s hands and they had flown together from the high walls of Winterfell. 

When Sansa’s time was near, Queen Yara (prompted by a raven from Theon, under strict instruction on when to send it from the Drowned God) came up from the Iron Islands to check that, as she put it, her little brother wouldn’t fuck this up. It was only a day or so after her arrival that Sansa had looked wide-eyed at Theon over the breakfast table and then calmly told him to call for the midwife and the Maester, as the sea inside her gave way. 

The Maester came quickly, and tried to send Theon from the bedchamber, where he had escorted his wife. Sansa refused to relinquish his hand, however. “Lord Theon,” she told the Maester calmly, when the latest contraction had settled, “was with me when my life was at its worst. We have made a new life and I want him here with me.”

In the end, the bedchamber had become a little more crowded than, perhaps, even Sansa had anticipated. There was the Maester, then the midwife, and Theon, the Drowned God in his head and, when Theon had barely managed not to fall back into the past because he was in Winterfell and Sansa Stark was screaming, Yara Greyjoy, who the Drowned God had made Theon get the Maester to summon, to stop her brother from fleeing. 

The birth itself, said the midwife, as the baby slid into her hands, drew a first great breath and gave a lusty cry, was one of the easiest she’d ever seen in a first time mother (although Yara had been sick twice watching it all, something that Theon teased her about for weeks afterwards). The midwife cut the cord and wiped the baby down with a warm cloth, then turned and gave the baby to Theon as she turned back to look after Sansa. He stared down at a small pink-purple bundle, its face contorted as it protested the loss of its warm safe home, the indignity of being squeezed and then thrust into a hot, crowded, somewhat smelly room (Yara had got a maid to take away the cloths she’d thrown up into, but the smell lingered). Dark red hair, matching Sansa’s, crowned the baby’s head, and then it opened eyes of ocean blue (or were they sea green?) and frowned up at Theon. 

“A boy,” said the Maester. “Congratulations, Queen Sansa, Lord Theon.”

“A boy,” said Theon, full of wonder at what he and Sansa had made. 

~ _A boy,~_ added the Drowned God, then added, sounding puzzled. ~ _Is that as good as a girl?~_ and Theon laughed. 

“Nearly,” he said, softly, and then made his way to Sansa’s side, laid the baby down on her breast. 

“A boy,” she said, and kissed the crown of his little head, as the baby continued to grizzle somewhat and she smiled up at Theon. “Robb,” she added.

“Yes,” he said, in something close to disbelief. “Robb Stark.”

“Robb Greyjoy Stark,” said Sansa firmly and Theon thought to protest, until he looked up into Yara’s eyes, soft in a way he’d never seen before and the Drowned God filled his head with joy.

~ _Yes,~_ said the Drowned God. ~ _Robb Greyjoy Stark. It is… fitting. It is done now. So when do you bring him to the sea to visit me?~_

Theon was stunned into silence for a minute, still not quite sure whether to believe that he was a father yet. ~ _I… not yet,~_ he finally managed. ~ _He is… very small. He needs to get bigger before we can travel.~_

The Drowned God’s voice was decidedly sceptical. ~ _He is the size of a good-sized fish,~_ he said. ~ _Near half the size of a seal pup. Are you sure you can’t bring him straight to me?~_

They were not the comparisons Theon had been expecting to hear and it took him a moment to get his bearings. ~ _No,~_ he said firmly, eventually. ~ _Human babies need time to grow, to get strong. We will bring him to you when we can.~_

 _~Don’t be too long,~_ said the Drowned God, his voice anxious but Theon barely heard him, lost in the sight of Sansa cradling their baby, their little Robb, in her arms, the family they had made. The Drowned God made a small, slightly disgruntled noise that was clearly meant to indicate the breadth of his displeasure at not being able to be there, but then he softened and his blessing filled Theon’s mind, a suffusing of something that could only be called love. ~ _You have done well, Theon Greyjoy,~_ and then his presence withdrew. 

“You didn’t fuck it up, little brother,” said Yara and Theon looked up at his sister, his eyes wide and suspiciously damp. She leaned in then, kissed his forehead lightly, touched a roughened finger to Robb’s forehead. “Welcome, nephew,” she said gravely and then laughed as Robb began to cry. “Just like his father,” she said. “Hopefully he won’t be a bag of wind and tears for too long,” and she grinned as Theon looked up at her, trying to be outraged but managing only to gape at her. “Take care of your family, Theon,” she said and nodding at Sansa, left the room, the Maester following close behind. This midwife stayed behind for long enough to show Sansa how to feed Robb, to check that he had latched on firmly and was feeding well and then she quietly withdrew. 

“Sansa,” Theon finally managed to breathe and she looked up at him and smiled, her face soft with love. 

“We made this,” she said, looking down at Robb. “After everything the world did to us - we made this.”

“We’ll have… some complicated things to tell him,” replied Theon. 

“Very complicated,” agreed Sansa. “We’ll make sure to do it right.” She stroked a soft hand across Robb’s brow, furrowed in concentration as he drank. “Our pack, Theon. The pack survives.”

“It does,” said Theon and then laughed, a laugh filled with joy. “I’ll have to teach him how to swim.”

Sansa smiled. “How long do you think he’ll last before he needs to see him?” she asked and Theon knew exactly who he was talking about.

“We’ll see,” said Theon. “We’ll see.”

*****

It took five months before the balance between the Drowned God’s increasingly impatient demands to meet Robb and the need for Robb to grow and strengthen tipped in the favour of travel. The ride through the Wolfswood had been peaceful, Robb mostly sleeping and feeding from where he was safely cradled in a sling on Sansa’s chest, the guards on a high state of alert, anxious to ensure the little pack was protected from entirely non-existent threats. 

Sansa was better prepared this time, needing only to take off her heavy overskirt and a light jerkin before she took Theon’s hand and walked into the sea. 

The Drowned God rose from the calm, cold waters, the flash of silver on the side of running fish, the glimmer of sunlight on clear waters, a harbour, an anchorage, the ripples from a ship sailing into its home port. 

“Theon Greyjoy,” said the god, softly. “Wolf of the North. You bring me your offering?”

Sansa looked shocked for a moment at the Drowned God’s choice of words, but Theon nodded. “I bring you my offering, Drowned God,” he said reverently, formally. “What I promised. A strong man, a happy woman, a fat baby. A family. Your family. You made me anew, and I have made this from what you gave me. I bring you your grandson, Drowned God. If you will have him.”

He turned to Sansa then and for a moment she glanced at him, searched his face for reassurance that the Drowned God wasn’t about to sacrifice Robb into the sea, but she accepted Theon’s firm nod of assurance. Carefully she lifted Robb out of his travelling sling, held him forward.

The Drowned God reached out and then his hands hovered near Robb and Sansa gave him a nod of encouragement. “He’s very small,” he said, dubiously, and Sansa laughed. 

“He’s grown a lot since he was born,” she said softly and then carefully deposited the baby boy into the Drowned God’s arms. 

The god looked down into Robb’s face and Robb looked back up at him, a small frown on his face under a thickening mop of dark red curls, eyes the colour of the ocean focussing on the god’s face. 

“Welcome, Robb Greyjoy Stark,” said the Drowned God formally. He lifted the baby up, closer to his face to look at him more clearly and Robb, careless of the proprietaries, waved his small fists around and squarely punched the Drowned God in the nose. 

The Drowned God blinked and looked startled and for a fleeting moment, Sansa’s face filled with fear. Then the god cradled Robb in one arm and touched his finger to the end of his tiny nose. “Bumped your nose,” said the god, very solemnly and baby Robb laughed. 

“He is not very fat,” said the Drowned God, looking up at Theon. 

“He’s a good weight,” said Theon. “How fat do you want him to be?” and laughed as the Drowned God put a picture in his mind, a baby seal so fat that it was almost circular. “That’s too fat for a human baby,” Theon assured the god. “He is healthy and well, little Robb.”

“You’ll come to visit me often?” said the god, somewhat anxiously, as Robb waved his hands around again and finally closed them around the Drowned God’s finger, holding it tightly. 

“He needs to learn to swim, to sail. To love the ocean I was made from. Of course we will visit you often,” said Theon and Sansa nodded in agreement.

“You have made me a grandson, Theon Greyjoy,” said the Drowned God, his voice full of wonder. “No-one has ever made me a grandson before. It is,” and he roiled suddenly, a dazzle of sunlight on water, a pod of dolphins skimming across the sea, a shimmer of soft rain on a calm sea, “the best offering anyone has ever made me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, fairly obviously, I’m not in Japan. Cancelled my trip three days before I was due to fly out because I was fairly certain I wouldn’t get back (I was right - I wouldn’t have got back - not easily, anyway). Hunkered down at home, writing my fan-fic and decided the times were right for happy, joyful, loving fluff with our favourite socially awkward god, his resurrected champion and the little pack they are building.


End file.
